


Sunshine in Winter

by lushthemagicdragon



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 1920s, Basically an analysis of period appropriate breakfast foods and the like, M/M, fantastic oranges and how did this get here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8819923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lushthemagicdragon/pseuds/lushthemagicdragon
Summary: Credence wakes up one morning to find an orange and a note for him on Graves' kitchen counter.  He spends the rest of the day worrying about it, because a fresh orange is an expensive treat in 1920's New York.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I learned that until major developments in food transport fresh oranges were a common Christmas present in New York because they were expensive and hard to get. That birthed this one-shot. I ended up doing a weird amount of research into breakfast in the 20s for this. No beta because I couldn’t find one, none of my usual betas were about, and I ran out of patience. This is basically in the same verse as my WIP, but that's not nearly far enough along to make any difference at all. Enjoy!

Credence sat at the kitchen table with his legs crossed in his chair, staring intently at the orange in front of him. He came across it in the morning after Mr. Graves had gone to work ( _Percy_ , he said, _I think you can call me Percy at this point Credence,_ but Credence thinks that on his mind’s tongue Percy would always be Mr. Graves). He had climbed out of bed, made for Mr. Graves’ robe, and moved to the kitchen to prepare himself a slice of toast and some eggs (a luxury before Mr. Graves had saved him, and he wouldn’t forget). There the orange was. It sat there on the table, round and bright like the sun itself, with a note written out in Mr. Graves’ well practiced yet still somehow rushed hand.  
  
_There’s more where this came from, enjoy._

He hesitated to take it in hand, this perfect fruit that was sitting right in front of him.  He had seen an orange before of course, in the windows of luxury shops or in the distance shared between children who lived on Carnegie Hill.  This, though, was different. He hadn’t even tasted what an orange was like until recently, when a can of Orange Juice straight from Florida opened itself, chilling in air on it’s way into his glass.  An important part of a good breakfast, Mr. Graves had told him as a plate with toasted white bread, bacon and eggs was placed down in front of him. Go on, eat. The juice went down like liquid energy, sweet but with a tang he had only ever previously associated with vinegar. It was incredible; he drank the whole can and apologized for his gluttony afterwards. Mr. Graves only chuckled; there was more where that came from, and Credence could do with a little more gluttony in his life. 

While scrutinizing the orange, Credence did eventually pick it up, only to promptly put it back down.  This was something special, he couldn’t just manhandle it.  It felt deeply wrong, like he hadn’t earned the right to even hold a ripe Florida Orange, much less eat it.  His Ma’s voice echoed in his ears, quieter than it used to but still present every so often behind his drums.  _“We can’t afford that Credence, how could you even consider taking money away from the children, from the cause, for a luxury?  Give me your belt Credence.”_ What had it been then? Chocolate.  He hadn’t even been suggesting it for himself, only considering out loud that Modesty had been so good, and Modesty had been the one looking longingly at the ad for a Hershey bar, not him.    
  
He couldn’t think about that.  Couldn’t think about Ma, or Modesty, or the life he had left behind.  Mr. Graves, Mr. Scamander and Miss Tina all told him that he was past that now, and he was learning. He left the orange on the table to do some cleaning (a lifelong habit, a way to keep himself occupied, and he couldn’t imagine not pulling his weight even when Mr. Graves said it wasn’t necessary). He washed the counters by hand with soap that made his skin feel soft instead of rough and dry, swept the floor, mended one of the curtains where Mr. Graves had clearly not noticed a tear.  He made the bed and settled into the corner of the couch to read the books Mr. Graves had bought for him.  Magical History from Ancient Times to Today, A Beginners guide to Potions, an introductory spell book. They normally kept his attention and interest like food in front of a starved man, but today his mind kept wandering; out the window at the light snow and the twinkle of Christmas lights in the distance as the sun went down, blurred by window fog; to how long Mr. Graves would be before he got home and what they would be having for dinner; to that orange on the kitchen table, seemingly brighter in low light than it had been during the day.    
  
He put the books aside eventually and padded over to the table again, and there he sat. In his long johns, wrapped in Mr. Graves’ robe, with his socks sliding off of his feet and his chin resting against his arms, eyes level with the orange.  He didn’t know what to make of it, of it’s sudden presence in his life, of what it meant and what it perhaps didn’t mean. An orange, an actual _orange_ , and Mr. Graves’ note telling him to enjoy. _There’s more where this came from._  Simple, like it didn’t cost an arm and a leg to ship up the coast.    
  
By the time Mr. Graves arrived back home with cloak and scarf settling themselves on their hooks by the door, the only major movement that Credence had made was to tuck his knees under his chin. He might have been spiraling, he wasn’t sure. He had calmed over the last year to an unfamiliar level where uncertainty and a depressed mood did little to disturb the dark parasite of his own creation still nested in his chest. There was just him and the orange, and he wasn’t sure.  Mr. Graves’ shoes on the floor alerted Credence to his presence, but he didn’t look up at Mr. Graves until a firm hand presses against the back of his neck in greeting. Credence smiled like only Mr. Graves could make him smile.   
  
“Welcome back, how was work?”  

“Fine, all things considered.  Have you been sitting here staring at an orange all day?”   
  
Credence’s smile faltered, and Mr. Graves’ thumb began a gentle rhythm against his skin.    
  
“Credence, what’s wrong?”    
  
“What am I supposed to do with it?”    
  
“What, the orange?  Generally you’re supposed to eat them.”   
  
“I’ve never…it’s too nice for me to just eat, I can’t just–”   
  
Mr. Graves sighed and Credence’s stomach sank.  He thought he had moved on from this, the instinctual sink of shame and the feeling that he was being a disappointment.  He thought his Ma’s voice had gotten quieter. Mr. Graves’ hand left the back of Credence’s neck and Credence sank his chin deeper into his knees, but instead of leaving the older man above him only leaned against the table, rolling up his sleeves.    
  
“Sure you can, you still like Orange Juice right? Look here.”  And as if it was just so simple, so easy to pick up the sun Mr. Graves took the orange in hand and started to peel it.  Credence watched as idol object became subject of menial task, and the orange peel lay abandoned on the table.  Mr. Graves pulled a slice apart, placing the ripe flesh beading with its own juice against Credence’s lips. “Go on baby, open up.”    
  
It tasted like sunshine.


End file.
